A Little Unsteady
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: A little in-canon Chelsie fic that opens on that scene by the sea in Brighton. What did they talk about - what did they THINK about - as they stood in the surf together? And what was it like, those months in between realizing love, and acknowledging it?
1. At Water's Edge

**A Little Unsteady**

 **A/N: I don't really know what this is going to be, or where I am going with this. It kept tickling at my mind as I planned the Brighton chapters for A Yorkshire Summer, so I finally stopped ignoring it.**

 **I kept thinking of this, and what they may have said and felt, as they stood by the sea on that fateful summer day in Brighton. I've written the moments leading up to their frolicking in the surf, and ones later that day, as they each muse upon it, that day on the beach that changed it all, in the end. What did they say to each other? More importantly, what _didn't_ they say? How were they feeling, right then, in those moments? **

**I was trying to answer my own questions, I suppose.**

 **~CeeCee**

 **Brighton, Summer 1923**

It had been a rather fine day, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, at least not to himself. He'd caught Elsie Hughes' rather satisfied countenance several times during the outing by the sea, as she surveyed the happy, frolicking staff or shared a laugh with Beryl Patmore. And though he could see "I told you so" dancing in her blue eyes, she'd not actually said the words out loud. To him, at least. _Yet._

And now, though he wasn't entirely sure exactly how it happened (was he sure how he'd gotten to Brighton in the first place, anyway? Likely not) he was standing in the freeze surf, his toes curling instinctively around the wet sand, furrowing his eyebrows at her. She was holding her skirt up, smiling at him encouragingly.

"Suppose I fall over?" _In front of everyone, in front of the staff. In front of_ you.

She laughed, and her heart pounded heavily in her chest; because something had occurred to her.

"Suppose a bomb goes off, suppose we're hit by a falling star? You can hold my hand, then we'll both go in together." _Had she just said that? Offered it?_ It seemed so. Part of her felt like running up the beach, to the safety of Beryl Patmore's knowing gaze and the staff's rowdy conversation. The other part of her wanted to stay right here, exactly where she was, next to him.

And then, he surprised them both: "I think I will hold you hand. It'll make me feel a bit steadier."

"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady." Her heart thumped more quickly in her chest. There was too much naked sincerity in the words. It off-put her. But she steeled herself. _What are you on about, you ninny? There's nothing to this, unless…unless, at last, there_ is. _Ye'll find out soon enough, Elsie._

His eyebrows went up, in that gesture she'd found both endearing and infuriating, with all emotions in between, over the past two decades or so. "I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué." His heart pulsed in his neck, a roaring sound that matched the incoming surf.

Laughter bubbled up in her chest, and suddenly, she felt like herself again, but bolder. It was she, her knowledge of him, her understanding of the staff, that lead them to this moment, together, wasn't it?

"And if I did? We're getting on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little." Something in his face loosened and they waded into the sea together, until it reached nearly to her mid-shin, and above his ankles. The bottom six inches of her skirt danced heavily on the water's surface, and she raised it a little higher.

They stood there for a few moments in silence, each very aware of the other's hand folded over his or her own. Because, no matter what either of them said, this grasp wasn't necessary, except in some fundamental way they each understood, underneath all of the teasing, and raised eyebrows and rolled eyes and the weightier formalities that governed their days, all these long decades.

It was simpler, for a few moments, to say nothing; to stand and let the sea dance around their legs, to let the sand pull gently at their toes. To listen to the plaintive cry of the gulls circling overhead, to glance over at the younger staff members, bolder and freer than they were, splashing each other several yards further out.

A wave playfully lapped against them, and he wobbled a little. She squeezed his hand, and somehow, found her voice.

"You do realize, Mr. Carson, it's more likely than not that we'll both go down into the drink if ye lose yer balance?" She grinned up at him, her cheeks flushed with the sun, the day, and the closeness of his body, in this casual situation. She felt adrift, with little to anchor her roiling body save their clasped hands and the sticky sand.

"I suppose, Mrs. Hughes, we best keep our footing, then," he replied, squeezing her hand tighter, hardly hearing the words he spoke. The didn't matter, not right now. Something was happening, inside of him. Though he was standing, braced against the foamy current swirling around his ankles, against the salty sea breeze, he felt, deep inside the center of him, something essential falling, falling, falling. Something _letting go_ right in the center of him.

It felt terrifying. It felt _wonderful._

"We always do, don't we, Mr. Carson?" She retorted, and she grinned up at him, the sun creating a shadow across her eyes. He wished he could see them, read what was just under the surface of the words in them. She turned her face back towards the sea, and he spent a long moment gazing at her profile. She looked very well today, though, if he admitted it to himself, he was hardly an unbiased observer.

The curve of her cheek, the lines of her mouth, the twist of her neck, bent over her ledger as she sat at her desk…it was these things that formed the language his heart spoke to him, late at night, when he could no longer ignore what it was whispering to him.

What it had been whispering to him, for nearly three years now: he loved Elsie Hughes, in a way that didn't entirely fit inside of their relationship at Downton. This beach, however, felt big enough for it. Or, at least, the sea, stretched to the horizon, could fit all of the things he felt about this woman standing beside him.

"We all fall sometimes, Mrs. Hughes," he responded, at last, quietly. He felt himself blush, but glanced over at her, trying hard to read her face. The sun shifted behind a cloud, and suddenly her gaze was direct, her blue eyes holding steady on his dark ones.

Her heart fluttered at his words. _Yes, we do. We all fall, sometimes. It's the landing, I think, that's important, in the end._ "No life is without its slip-ups, Mr. Carson, wouldn't you say? I may even go further, and boldly state that our falls, even if we get scraped and bruised, help us, in the long run."

She paused, then continued, "As you said to me once, Mr. Carson, what would be the point of living, if we didn't let life change us?" She pressed on, despite the surprised raising of his eyebrows, the distractingly pleasing way his hair was dancing in the breeze. It felt like admitting something, to present his own words back to him. They were proof of how much she paid attention to him, tucking his words away inside of her, unfolding and smoothing out their conversations in her head, like rereading lines from an old, faded love letter, tucked inside a drawer.

"You remind me of who I am more than I do myself, sometimes, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, and again, his mind and body tugged at him to focus on the place where their bodies were joined, palm to palm, warm like smooth stones in the sun.

"I certainly call you up on your foibles, Mr. Carson, which you usually bear with rather well," she laughed, kicked her feet in the surf. The water felt warmer now, more comfortable. Less shocking. So did holding his hand.

"Less often than I deserve, most likely, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, and looked over at her again. Though, again, how well she looked, how relaxed.

"And yet, more often than I am sure you'd like," she laughed, then bent, still grasping his hand, and traced her fingers across the surface of the water. It felt cold against them, in contrast to her feet and ankles. _They've gotten used to the sensation. Like you've gotten used to holding his hand, standing here for a quarter of an hour. You'll have to let go, and soon, you ninny. Then what?_

"This was a fine idea, Mrs. Hughes, and it took me too long to get to it," he responded, looking hard at her. Knowing, as he had earlier on the Pullman ride here, that she'd somehow gotten them all here, by steering him towards this outing, towards the sea.

"Nae, Mr. Carson, you got here just in the nick of time, wouldn't you say? Here we stand, our legs splashed by the ocean, our toes wiggling in the sand," she grinned up at him, and his stomach rolled lazily. Seeing her bare feet next to his, along the damp shoreline… "It's not too late, not really." She considered him, wondering. Had she meant anything, anything at all, as she cajoled him into the water? It had begun as teasing but didn't feel funny anymore.

They stood there for a few minutes, not speaking. They're hands were still linked; neither of them wanted to be the first to let go. The wind tugged at the brim of her hat, and she pressed it down lest it cartwheel along the shoreline. He sighed, feeling the small weight of his pocket watch pressing against his ribcage, a reminder that this day would come to an end, eventually.

"It really _was_ a fine idea, Mr. Carson, spending the day here," she finally spoke again, and her voice was small and steady.

"And not entirely mine, Mrs. Hughes," he glanced down at her and smiled.

"Perhaps not, Mr. Carson, but it turned out so well, you ought to take full credit for it, anyway," she teased, and then slipped a little as a waved rolled in. His hand tightened on hers for a moment, bracing her.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes? Oughtn't we go back towards the blankets?"

"I'm fine, yes, though I'm not sure I'll keep upright once the tide comes in. Let's not go up quite yet, Mr. Carson. Unless you're ready?" He shook his head. She pressed on, given his hand another squeeze. "Then let's stand here, for a few minutes longer. I can live with a little thrilling uncertainty, at least for the moment, can't you?"

"I suppose I can, at that, Mrs. Hughes."


	2. The Ride, Not the Destination

**Chapter 2 – The Ride, Not the Destination**

 **A Train Riding Through the Yorkshire Countryside**

 **Later That Week, 1923**

 **A/N: Hi, Chelsie loves. This little story has been waiting here, patiently, for me, as I finished A Yorkshire Summer. Now I'm coming back to it. It feels very…intimate…to me, a story about how slowly our loves come to action once doused with the cold water of their feelings for each other.**

 **~CeeCee**

She had meant it all in jest. It had been a bit of teasing, safe and known, as they'd partook in dozens, nay, hundreds of times before. It was just their way, after all these years.

 _Wasn't it?_

Why, then, did she keep thinking of his hand, gripping hers, tightly, when she almost stumbled in the surf?

Why, then, did she think of how his calves had looked, his bare feet, scrunching in the sand, alongside hers?

Why, then, did she think of his usually tidy dark hair, flipping carelessly in the breeze, dancing above his face, the well-worn and well-known lines of it, etched into her memory like the lines on the back of her hand?

And, why, why oh why, did her heart flutter furiously in her throat when she thought of him, of the feeling of his hand, folded over hers?

"Ye foolish thing. Ye're too old for these types of notions. Especially, these particular notions," she muttered to herself, sighing. It had been a momentary fancy, like the trip to the beach itself; a day out of the ordinary.

However, this train was speeding them back briskly towards home, towards Downton, towards real life. A life where clasped hands and bare feet in the surf had no place, at least not for the likes of her.

"Yeh're talkin' to yerself, are yeh now?"

She started, glanced up. Beryl Patmore was grinning down at her, standing in the train aisle, swaying slightly.

"Not precisely," she answered, cleared her throat. She felt herself redden, though there was, of course, no way the other woman had heard her. _Certainly not._ "Muttering, more like. Not outright conversation with myself, or anything close to."

"Splitting hairs, yeh are, but I'll leave yeh be, by joing yeh," the cook responded, and sat next to her. She sighed contentedly, grinned over at Elsie.

"How can I argue with logic like that?" Elsie retorted, and felt herself giggling, in spite of herself. "Especially as I hardly understand ye're meaning, Mrs. Patmore. But I'm glad for your company, either way."

"You looked like you needed a seatmate, Mrs. Hughes. You were…brooding. No, dreamy. That's it. You look the way Ivy's been lookin', talking about America," Beryl responded.

"'Dreamy,' Mrs. Patmore? Perhaps I spoke too soon, with regards to wanting company," Elsie answered, but she settled back in her seat. 'Twas better, this: gentle teasing with her friend, rather than actual thoughts about Downton's butler, who was somewhere nearby, up or down a car or two. This teasing felt mercifully _normal._

"The sea will do it to a soul, I've no doubt," Beryl caught her eye, and held her gaze.

She was smiling, but that look meant something else, something more. There were suppositions, and questions in that glance. Elsie sighed, her heart racing again. She wasn't going to have a conversation, teasing or otherwise, about Charles Carson, on this train car crammed to the gills with junior staff members. Not even with Beryl Patmore, as well-meaning as she may be.

She tried something. "Alright, then, Mrs. Patmore, I'll admit it, to you and you only – 'twas _my_ idea, not Mr. Carson's, that we take the trip to Brighton. Though, of course, he's none the wiser, and I'd prefer to keep it that way, if you don't mind," she rolled her eyes, tried to get her heart to match the casual sound of her voice.

 _Why was this proving so difficult?_

"Well, Mrs. Hughes, given the number of secrets and half-truths we've between us, I think I can abide by those terms," Beryl Patmore retorted, but there was, again, something more in her gaze, if not in her tone. Elsie was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

Beryl sighed, glanced past Elsie, at the countryside flowing past them. She settled herself back, then spoke again after a brief pause.

"Though Ivy's quite a good worker, and a nice enough girl, I can't say I'll be sorry to see the back side of her, I'll tell you the truth, Mrs. Hughes," she said. Elsie was surprised at the abrupt change of topic.

"Well, I cannot disagree with you on any of those points, Mrs. Patmore," she answered, and the tense parts of her loosened. Perhaps, she'd not been caught out, daydreaming about Charles Carson like some foolish schoolgirl.

"I was worried, for a mo', that Daisy was going to take that young American lad up on his offer – or offers, rather, as he had more than one of employment. But she's not ready to take the _plunge_ , or so it seems, at least, not yet," Beryl continued, and Elsie realized she'd been trapped.

"Perhaps…perhaps Daisy likes the way things are, likes her place, and her friends, at Downton," she replied. "There's nothing wrong with being contented with things, Mrs. Patmore."

"No, Mrs. Hughes, nothing wrong a'tall. However…however, as much as I'd not want to lose her, I'd not be entirely upset if she set sail for more interesting waters, or made some changes to the _status quo_ , as they say," Beryl raised her eyebrow up at her friend.

They weren't talking about Daisy. They never had been.

"Mayhaps you're right, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie sighed again, as the train pulled them closer and closer to Downton, to real life.

"I could be, Mrs. Hughes. In any case, it's no harm in dipping your toes in, is it?"

And now the cook was laughing in earnest, and Elsie couldn't help but join her.


	3. Not Quite the Same

**Chapter 3 – Not Quite the Same**

For the first time in a long time, Charles felt slightly…off-put…returning to Downton after spending time in London. It wasn't melancholy, or sadness, no; nothing so terribly dramatic. More, it was a sense that something was _missing_ upon the staff and family's return after Lady Rose's _début_ , something lacking.

And that, indeed, was odd.

There was nowhere in the world Charles Carson felt best, most himself than at Downton. It was where the order and hierarchy he so appreciated in life fell tidily into place each day, even when he had to steer them in the right direction. That's what he was here for. Downton was his _purpose._

The day after their return, he was sitting at his desk, going over the wine cellar's log, adding the vintages his lordship had acquired whilst in the city, including a very fine red he'd like to share with –

There was a knock on his door. There always was, wasn't there?

"Enter," he rumbled, setting his pen down. Joseph Molesley stood there, a smile on his face and a large folio in his hand. The man could be a bit of a fool sometimes, but Charles had noticed those times occurring less and less frequently in the past few years. In any case, foolish or no, he was generally a hard worker and a very good, kind sort of man, so Charles tolerated some of his other obvious foibles.

"Ah, Mr. Carson, sir," Molesley began. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I'd meant to give this to you yesterday, and it slipped my mind." The younger man laughed a little, more a nervous tic and then a result of actual mirth.

"What have we here, Mr. Molesley?"

"It's the photograph, Mr. Carson, that was taken at Brighton. Of the staff," he concluded, most unnecessarily. Charles remembered the wandering photographer, and Elsie Hughes cajoling him to gather the group of sunbathers together for a candid group portrait. He'd relented, he remembered, because he'd not been able to shake the feeling of her fingers wrapped around his.

"I do, indeed, Mr. Molesley, and I thank you for bringing it to me," he took it, set it aside. The other man was standing there, expectantly. "Is that all, then?" He raised an eyebrow. He couldn't get distracted right this moment with frivolities like souvenir photographs.

"Yes, I suppose so, Mr. Carson," Joe Molesley sighed, disappointment writ large on his face. No matter; there was work to be done, as kind as his gesture had been.

"Off with you then, Mr. Molesley," he responded, then looked up again briefly. "And thank you for this – I do appreciate it." The man broke into a sunny grin as he left the room, mostly mollified, it appeared.

He went back to logging the new wines, from pinots to champagnes, for the next few moments; but that slight unease, that tickling at the very base of his stomach, that he'd felt since returning to the grand house, wouldn't let him concentrate.

Somehow, he felt looking at the photograph might. He sighed again and shook his head.

"Nonsense," he muttered to himself, but still reached for the large folder. He opened it, feeling the grin spread across his face all on its very own. He and Elsie Hughes had arranged them all, in two orderly rows, each starting at one to create some order to the chaos of the briefly-vacationing staff, who had been in playful high spirits after frolicking in the surf and sand all day.

There was very little order to the photo on the table. His grin widened. He couldn't help it. The whole staff looked relaxed and happy. Thomas Barrow had been caught slapping Joe Molesley on the back, the other man bent over mid-laugh. Phyllis Baxter grinned at the pair of them, an amused look on her serene face. Beryl Patmore, her arm linked with Daisy's, had also be caught laughing. Madge and Ivy had their arms slung around each other's shoulders, like school girls on a day off. Even the Bates looked peaceful.

He found himself, standing on the left-hand end of the big group, his trouser legs still rolled to his upper calves, his dark hair blowing in the sea breeze. He was grinning slightly, looking towards the other end of the scene. It had been Elsie Hughes he'd been grinning at, of course, and she at him, the two of them standing tall amidst the silliness and boisterousness of the rest of them.

It was her grin too, that said it all: what a grand idea the outing had been, in the end. And it had been her idea, hadn't it? So why wouldn't she approve?

Of _course_ it had been her idea. He chuckled again, pulled his desk draw open. Pulled out a colored postcard, depicting the Brighton seaside. He tucked it into the folio, next to the photograph. Then he set the whole thing back inside the draw, closing it.

He got back to work, humming a little to himself as he did.

There was another knock on the door. There always was. This one he knew, though.

"Come in," he cleared his throat, straightened his waistcoat.

"Mr. Carson, I hate to interrupt, but ye've been requested by his lordship in the library. Something about the newly acquired wine, I believe?" Elsie Hughes was standing there, a familiar half-smile on her face. That uneasy feeling was back in his gut, at the very center of him. It wasn't a terrible feeling, if he thought about it.

"Superb timing, Mrs. Hughes, as I've just finished organizing it all," he held up his ledger as proof.

"Including setting one aside for us to share, Mr. Carson?" Her grin widened.

"I'd never do such a thing, Mrs. Hughes, and shame on you for suggesting it," he answered, fighting back laughter. "However, his lordship _did_ request I open a few bottles for him to sample, and well, who's to say who finishes those bottles once he's had his fill?"

"I'm glad you've got it all sorted so well, Mr. Carson," she answered as they walked into the hallway again. Outside the enclave of his study, the bustle of the kitchen and the servants' all flooded upon them.

"Back at it, I suppose," she added. Someone was calling her name urgently from the kitchens. It sounded like Beryl Patmore. She rolled her eyes. "Some things never change. See you later this evening, Mr. Carson." She hurried off and he looked after her for a long moment.

"No, some things never do," he murmured, heading towards the stairs at last. "And, it seems, some things do, eventually. A little, at least."


	4. The Whole Story

Chapter 4 – The Whole Story

 **A/N: Hi lovelies! So, this story feels very small to me, very intimate. It's about all of those little details. It's about that murky time that sometimes happens in life, between two people, when they both realize** ** _something else is going on here._** **I've been there. I know lots of you have too. That time and space when both people feel something starting, something different, but aren't exactly sure what it is yet. I think that's what this** ** _small_** **story is going to be about. That time.**

 **~CeeCee**

 **NB: The reference to** ** _Hound of the Baskervilles_** **is a nod to my Chelsie opus "A History of Moments". If you want to know a bit more about it, you can check out Chapter 9 of that story.**

She was glad to be back at Downton, where everything made sense again. Something…something had been happening inside of her whilst they were in London. She'd been…reckless? No, she'd not been, not really. But she'd _felt_ a little reckless, deep inside of herself, that final week they were there.

She sighed, closed her ledger. The long hours of a standard work day at Downton were ebbing at last, and she could set her task aside without guilt. She'd done enough today, to get the family entirely settled back at home, to get the staff settled out of their holiday mood.

 _Is that what is was, Elsie? A 'holiday mood'? Is that why you feel so fluttery today, and yesterday, both?_ She breathed out something between a grunt and a laugh in response to her musings. She wasn't even sure what that meant, exactly, as it pertained to her. Oh, certainly, she'd enjoyed the excursion to Brighton, but it had been for the staff, mostly. And to save herself from being bored to tears by the Crystal Palace or Madame Tussaud's.

 _Hadn't it?_

She shook her head, listening to the sounds filtering in from the hall, from the kitchen, coming through her door which she'd left ajar. They were the sounds of a house bedding down for the night, and there was something satisfying about this time of day. There was still time to relax, enjoy a quiet moment, before collapsing into bed and starting the whole merry-go-round spinning again on the morrow.

Charles Carson would be by momentarily, with the dregs of whatever vintages his lordship had not finished during their tasting earlier. _A small sip of the finer things in life, Elsie. Isn't that enough?_ She thought and smiled a little. Thought of her Mam and Dad, and Becky, sweet, simple Becky, who wouldn't know Bordeaux from Champagne, nor anything in between.

A taste was certainly enough for a farm girl from Argyll. It was probably just the right amount. _It's not about the wine anyway, you ninny._

Now why on Earth had she thought that?

She shook her head again and pulled a novel from her drawer. If Beryl Patmore popped her head in the next few minutes, she'd tease her mercilessly for resting on the job. But no matter; Elsie loved a good mystery, and she loved rereading Conan Doyle's series of stories about the most famous literary detective in the world.

She usually took them in order, but she'd pulled this one out and tucked it in her back for the train ride to and from London this summer. Not that she'd had much time for reading whilst going in either direction, but she had been able to sneak a few chapters in here and there.

She opened to her place in the book, which she had marked with an old receipt. She lost herself for a few minutes in the thrilling tale of the spectral hound that, in the end, was a mere mortal mastiff mix covered in phosphorous. What she loved most about Sherlock was his methodical, unwavering quest for the truth of the matter, despite appearances of a situation.

She remembered when the tale was first published, in installments in _The Strand,_ over twenty years ago. How she'd missed a few chapters and abandoned the story, not wanting to skip to the end without all of the facts. Now, she sighed, and flipped to the front of the novel in her hands. Gazed down at the inscription there, which she'd read many, many times in the past few decades:

 _'_ _To E. Hughes – I gift you the gift of the whole story, which is something we rarely get in life. Warmly, C. Carson'_

Something fluttered high in her chest, gazing down at the proof of Charles Carson's long regard of her. They had been friends back then, at the turn of the century, to be certain. She recalled being deeply touched by the gift of the novel and telling him so. And now they knew each other, had witnessed so much more of each other's lives, in the interim.

And yet…

She felt their friendship grew more complicated as time wore on. Why must that be so? She wasn't sure. Or…maybe part of her was, and she wasn't interested in listening to it right now. That reckless part of her, tucked way down. That had no business existing inside of a housekeeper well into her middle age, with a litany of responsibilities to her name, from enormous and insignificant.

But it was still there, that small, reckless piece of her. And it was clamoring for her attention, more than the story, more than the old inscription at the front of the novel.

"Mrs. Hughes."

She started, put her hand to her chest. "Mr. Carson, good evening. I was wool-gathering, I'm afraid. Please, come in."

She glanced up at him, framed by the doorway. He had a bottle of wine and two glasses in one hand; a brown portfolio tucked under his other arm, and he closed her office door behind him.

"I apologize if I am interrupting…but his lordship has gifted us an entire bottle of this delightful red, so I thought we should partake of it, sooner rather than later," he set everything down on her desk. He uncorked the fresh bottle expertly, poured them each a glass. She watched him in silence, paying attention to each motion he made. Her hand was still resting on the mystery novel she'd been reading.

"Well, that was rather generous of him, I'll say that much," her voice sounded light, and right. She was glad of it.

"Indeed, it was. I think you'll quite enjoy this, Mrs. Hughes, but we ought to let it breathe for a few minutes," he set the bottle aside after filling the glasses generously. "In the meanwhile, I thought you might like to see this." He tapped his finger on the folder he'd been carrying.

"And what's this, Mr. Carson?"

"Mr. Molesley brought it to me earlier. It's a photograph, taken at the staff excursion to Brighton. Remember, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson, I remember. I've not lost all my senses quite yet, it seems," she grinned up at him and walked around to stand beside him as he pulled the print out. Her heart leapt with happiness when the image was revealed.

"Well now. Isn't that just lovely? What a fine day that was, was it not, Mr. Carson?" She took the print from him gently. There was so much happiness and relaxation in the photo, it filled her with good feelings. One day, one afternoon, didn't dispel anyone's stresses, grief, or concerns permanently but wasn't it grand to take a break from them, every now and then? It was.

She found him, and herself, in the image in her hand. Gazing at each other from twenty, twenty-five feet away. They seemed to know more than she did now, those week-old versions of themselves.

"The question is, where to put it?" He took it back from her, and they each returned to their sides of her desk and sat.

"Well, the servants' hall comes to mind," she replied, smiling at him. He handed her a glass. She sipped. "Ooh, this is delightful, Mr. Carson." He nodded, took a sip himself.

"I thought of that, but it seems too…frivolous. It might give the staff the wrong impression, or any visitors, for that matter," he answered, his forehead crinkling. She grinned at that.

"Heaven forefend," she responded. "Well, what about your study, then?"

"Mrs. Hughes, I hardly think that's any more appropriate," he rumbled, one eyebrow raised. "Can you imagine, trying to give someone a dressing-down with this photograph looming on the wall? No, it won't do."

"Put it in your room, then, Mr. Carson," she answered, and for some reason her heart swooped in her chest. "Granted, the staff won't get to enjoy it, but I know other candids were taken that day. They'll have memories of their own to cherish, and Mr. Molesley _did_ give it to you, after all."

"Perhaps I will, Mrs. Hughes," he tucked the photo away, a thoughtful look softening his features. He cleared his throat, almost spoke, then stopped himself.

"What is it, Mr. Carson?"

"Nothing, really, Mrs. Hughes. It just seems more difficult than usual to return to routine this fall, than it has in the past. Haven't you found it so, as well?"

His question startled her, caused another whoosh in her chest. It was far too close to how she had been feeling these past few days for the admission to feel entirely comfortable. She took another sip of wine to give herself a few moments.

"Aye, I have, Mr. Carson." She didn't trust herself, or this feeling, to say more than that.

"Perhaps, it's just getting older, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, settling back in his chair.

"Ye ought not throw a woman's age in her face, Mr. Carson," she laughed in response. "Though it's rather fitting, seeing as how I am rereading a gift you gave me, very long ago indeed, as a birthday gift." Why did she bring it up? The novel? It was too late to take it back now she supposed.

His face grew softer still and something loosened in her chest. Maybe it didn't _have_ to be complicated, this long friendship of theirs. He reached over and picked the novel up, opening to the inscription. He chuckled, smiled, and shook his head.

"It's still true, this; don't you think, Mrs. Hughes?" He held the book up, waving his words from over two decades ago at her.

"Aye, I do. More than ever before, Mr. Carson," she gazed over at him. Thinking of the topsy-turvy feeling of standing hand-and-hand with him, in the foaming surf. Thinking of Becky, in her group home by the sea in St. Annes. Of all of the other missing pieces of her story, of his story, that the other didn't know, due to the passage of time or reticence or embarrassment. "The whole story is an awful lot, sometimes, don't you think?"

"That it is, Mrs. Hughes," he closed the book, and his smile shrunk, became something gentler. He handed it back to her, and her fingers brushed his. That small part of herself shivered, waiting and breathless.

She'd just realized: the story, her story, his story – _their_ story – wasn't over. Not yet.


	5. Changing Seasons

Chapter 5 – Changing Seasons

 **A/N: Thanks for all the thoughtful reviews, you guys. I now have a sense of what this story will be and is. My plan is to explore the timeline between S4 and S5 – those last few months of 1923. And I pretty much write canon, so if you are expecting resolution here, this isn't that fic! But I love the idea of taking time with this and ending likely at Christmas, to set a contrast between Cheslie during that time in '23 versus the proposal at Xmas '24.**

 **I appreciate you all reading and reviewing this subtle little fic. ~CeeCee**

She gazed out the window as the train entered Yorkshire, watching the familiar landscape that had shed the emerald green of its summer outfits, the trees now wearing a riot of gold, orange, brown and reds instead, dressed for autumn.

It was hard to believe that she'd been standing in the ocean, bare feet covered in sand, not even a month ago; but the seasons were sometimes like that, she found. They came upon a person before she could even pull the heavier coat from its place in the closet, or one could see last year's gloves would do for another winter.

And this roundtrip train ride was the opposite of her last one, that journey to and from London over the summer. She was heading back towards Downton now, but from somewhere else: Lytham St Annes. From Becky, and her group home by the sea. From a woman named Kathryn Clemmens, who was kind and tough and loved Becky nearly as much Elsie did.

Kathryn, Becky's long-time nurse, had called Elsie two days ago, at Downton. Elsie's heart fluttered in her chest a bit, remembering. Because, of course, the call had been answered by Charles Carson. He had knocked on the door of her office, in that distinctive way he had, not long before lunch was to be served upstairs.

 _"Mrs. Hughes? You've a phone call," his forehead was creased in that dear way it had of folding on itself._

 _"I do?" She couldn't help the surprise that crept into her voice. Who on earth would be calling her? Then she realized there really only could be one person, and very few reasons she might call._ Kathryn.

 _"Indeed, a Miss Clemmens is waiting for you on the line," he replied, all the questions he'd never dare ask her dancing in his eyes. "Obviously, you can use my study as long as you need to for the conversation."_

 _"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I very much appreciate it." She had hurried past him, ignoring her pounding heart, hoping that Kathryn's news wouldn't be too terrible, wondering what she would do if it_ was _the worst news possible. How she would manage to hold herself together, pretend not to be mourning a sister that no one in her life knew about._

She had not had to test this particular version of sorrow, however. Becky was doing poorly, yes, and Kathryn explained to her that this was likely the beginning of the troubles that had always been waiting for Becky, in her middle age: her heart, and all of those things connected to it, didn't work as properly as they should. It was all connected to what made her simpleminded, a decision that had been made before she'd entered the world.

Elsie had sat with Becky, holding her hand and letting her sister pet her hair, as she and Kathryn discussed what needed to be done going forward, to make her sister comfortable and happy as the decline began. As Kathryn spoke, Elsie had pressed her cheek into Becky's caress, smelling the warm, sweet, Becky-smell of her damp hand, looking at the face that still seemed ageless in its lack of guile, though her sister was over fifty. Trying to imagine the next few years, the rapid aging that her nurse warned was coming.

She was heading back to Downton, back home, as it was now, after all of these years, for good or ill. And so were the people in it, the people she worked with every day. She leaned back against her seat and sighed, wondering why she'd kept her sister a secret for so long, for all of these years. From Beryl Patmore, from Charles Carson.

She brushed a traitorous tear from her cheek as she wondered. In the back of her mind, there had never been the right time to confide in them, or a good enough reason. And now it was more than a secret; it had become a burden.

One she felt obligated to carry herself.

She grinned, though it wasn't an entirely certain smile. She gazed out at the gorgeous colors rushing by, blurring into a single burst of flame. The season had changed for Becky – and for her – before she could prepare for it. There was no other doing: you had to move forward in this life, lest it leave you behind. And if you kept going, who knows bright wonders might show up at a moment's notice?

oooOOOooo

He'd never admit it, but he had spent the last thirty-six hours alternating between anticipating Elsie Hughes' return – and wondering what had obligated her to leave so suddenly in the first place.

After speaking with the mysterious Kathryn Clemmens for a quarter of an hour, she'd emerged from his study solemn-faced but calm. Requested a day off, including a night away from Downton. Her tone was light, her face was serious and her eyes entirely avoiding the questions his were asking.

Which was fair, of course. He had no right to encroach on her privacy. No right, but he couldn't help himself from wondering, so he didn't bother to try. But now that the time of her requested leave was expiring, he was anticipating her arrival at any moment.

As he reached his study after dinnertime, Beryl Patmore bustled into the hallway.

"Ah, Mrs. Patmore," he greeted her. "Did Mrs. Hughes mention to you what train she'd be taking back? I want to ensure someone is at the station to meet her, if possible." A pointless question. He knew what train, and he'd sent the car to pick her up not twenty minutes ago. Somehow, he couldn't help himself.

"Not sure that's necessary, Mr. Carson. She's already returned. Have you not seen her?"

"No, I've not! Is she in her office?"

"I suppose you each just missed the other. Miss Baxter came down right after the meal finished, looking for her. She'd not even gotten her hat off, but her ladyship needed something solved urgently, and I suppose only Mrs. Hughes would do. So off she went," the cook shook her head. "I was going to make her a plate up in a minute; she looked travel-weary and spent, I'll tell you, Mr. Carson."

 _Only Mrs. Hughes would do._ Something deep inside of him sighed at the thought.

"Very good, Mrs. Patmore, thank you. I'm sure she'll appreciate that once she's finished with her ladyship," he nodded.

"Appreciate what?"

He and Beryl Patmore turned at the sound of Elsie Hughes' voice. _She looks tired,_ he thought. _But well._ Whatever had called her away had been settled satisfactorily, at least for now.

"A hot meal, and maybe a strong cuppa," the cook replied, grinning.

"Dinner yes, but I'll pass on the tea, Mrs. Patmore, thank you," she grinned at both of them, and he was pleased to see it reached her eyes. "However, Mr. Carson, if ye've something from the wine cellar you'd be willing to share…?" She raised an eyebrow at him as the cook bustled away to secure her some edibles. She followed him into his study and he closed the door behind them.

She was silent as he poured them each a glass and they took a seat at the small table for two.

"Thank you," she said as he passed her the wine. "For both the drink and the discretion. Ye've not asked what took me away, nor even hinted at even the mildest curiosity about it."

"You're very welcome, on both accounts," he cleared his throat. He wasn't sure if her words were an invitation or a warning, so he waited. He also knew that, in a few minutes' time, Beryl Patmore would interrupt their _tête-á-tête_ and the distinction would be meaningless.

She sipped her wine then looked over at him, her forehead creasing. She seemed to be considering something for a moment, her countenance open; then her face changed, settled into the one he was used to.

"I meant to find you when I returned, but Lady Cora had an emergency she needed assistance with," her voice wasn't entirely respectful. He found he didn't mind.

"And only you would do," he replied, filling with warmth again.

"Aye, and I only I would do, in or out of my travel clothes," she replied, and her expression changed once again. "I suppose it's lucky everything resolved itself and I was able to return so quickly." She added, and something told him that was all he was going to get from her on the matter. A door may have been open, briefly, but she'd firm shut it again, for her own reasons.

"Lucky for us, you mean Mrs. Hughes," he quipped, and it felt acceptable. "Downton might crumble upon itself if you were gone for too long."

"I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Carson, so there's no need to worry on that account," she answered, grinning, but her color was high. "I'm here to stay. There's really no other place that feels like home anymore."

"I have to agree with you, Mrs. Hughes," he took another sip of his wine, wondering where she had been, and grateful for her return.

Beryl Patmore came in at last with a tray and he poured her a glass of port as well. The trio of them chatted, the conversation becoming livelier, lighter, and he mused, briefly, what made a place home.

He felt it had very little to do with the grand house above him. He was certain of it.


End file.
